


Touch

by scarletjedi, TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Massage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, PWP, Touch-Starved, sensual massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Spock needs. McCoy notices.Inspired by this postCompanion piece to this ficlet (AOS)





	

McCoy couldn’t forget Gary Seven, much though he would’ve liked to. The memory of Spock holding that damn black cat kept nagging at him… Spock cradling the animal, petting it like he was mesmerized… it struck a chord in McCoy’s heart. Spock liked the tribbles pretty well, too. Then there was the silly little dog they had on board during the transporter duplication incident. Spock took care of it, McCoy recalled. He could still see the CSO with the thing cradled in his arms. 

Those interesting incidents slotted into McCoy’s mental file on Spock, where he always tucked tidbits of knowledge and used them to build patterns. It was part of his duty as ship’s psychologist to figure out the crew. Spock was just different—difficult, inscrutable. So in his case, McCoy had to work harder.

Maybe Spock was just fond of animals (if Vulcan psychology would allow for the possibility of something as illogical as fondness). But McCoy had a hunch that explanation didn’t go deep enough. Still… it wasn’t any of his business, really.

Until the pattern started to settle into place.

McCoy’s next data point occurred on Brios III when he came to after a pillar fell, delivering a glancing blow to his head. He lay still, blinking fuzzily up at Spock and Jim leaning over him, anxious. Spock’s hands rested on his. Both of them. They completely covered his, wrapping softly over his exposed skin, fingers stroking his lightly. 

“Be still, doctor. It is my opinion you have sustained a concussion.” Spock’s fingers petted his. There wasn’t any other word for the sensation.

“Who’s the damn doctor here, I’d like to know?” McCoy blustered a bit (weakly) for the sake of show; he could tell Spock was probably right. 

Those hands lingered on his, powerful fingers inexpressibly gentle. McCoy felt too sluggish to pull away, but the continued contact startled him nonetheless. 

Spock finally drew back from that emotion; he covered his motion by reaching for his communicator and ordering a beam-out. A few minutes later McCoy found himself in sickbay with Chapel tending his injuries. He was relieved they weren’t too bad for her to handle by herself. 

As he lay still in the biobed where she’d put him, getting in his mandatory rest leave, his hands tingled where Spock had touched him. Fucking bastard was a touch telepath; had he been sifting through McCoy’s mind? Hell. He hadn’t forgotten what he saw when Sarek and Amanda were aboard. Just touching fingers was apparently the Vulcan equivalent of kissing. What the hell did it mean for Spock to grab a man’s hands and fondle them?

It was a critical piece of a puzzle McCoy had been building for a long time, an edge piece. If he could get a few more of those, maybe the inside picture would start to come together.

He stumbled onto another edge piece when he spotted Spock and Jim sparring together in the gym. They weren’t going shirts vs. skins; they were stripped down to skins vs. skins. McCoy slowed to a stop by the doorway and waited, observing the one-sided nature of the actual wrestling going on—Spock ought to be able to tie Jim into a pretzel as quickly as he wanted, but he let the wrestling persist, keeping Kirk from pinning him without launching any serious counterattacks of his own. 

After a few minutes, McCoy raised a brow and went on his way.

At breakfast the next morning, Spock came in to speak with him regarding a minor incident in the biology lab. He rested his fingertips against Bones’s back as they leaned over a damaged tissue culture. Two of the fingers touched the nape of his neck above McCoy’s collar. They hovered there, unobtrusive, and damn it, if Spock were anyone else McCoy wouldn’t even notice, but it was Spock, so he noticed in no uncertain terms.

It was time to test his theory.

He started creating unobtrusive little opportunities for contact; almost invariably, Spock took advantage of them. He seemed ready to touch McCoy and Kirk any time he got a chance. Skin on skin was apparently not a problem despite the whole touch telepathy business. 

“Mr. Spock,” Bones drawled at the Vulcan’s next quarterly physical. “If you have a minute, I’d like to discuss a theory of mine.”

Spock raised a brow; Bones decided a practical demonstration of his observations was in order. 

“I’ve been observing a crewman who appears to be somewhat depressed. He responds positively to interactions with non-sentient beings, cuddling and cradling them. He gets so into it he seems almost hypnotized sometimes.” He walked up casually beside Spock as he straightened the hem of his shirt. “He has a few particular friends among the crew, and seems a little… clingy with them lately. More so than normal. Usually he’s pretty reserved. An introvert.” McCoy set his hand lightly on the nape of Spock’s neck, just below the collar; Spock subtly leaned back against the touch, failing to step away. 

“I did some research into psychological phenomena, extrapolating from his background, and it led me to believe some of his basic needs aren’t getting addressed.” While he talked, he moved his hand subtly, starting to knead and press—just like he’d touch Jim if his neck was locked up from a tension headache. Spock almost purred, and McCoy honestly didn’t think he was even aware of it. He switched to two hands, rubbing the pressure points on either side of the spine to ease them.

“He’s not in a relationship as far as I can tell; like I said, he’s isolated except for a couple of close friends. I think he’s suffering from touch deprivation. It’s a worrisome psychological condition in humans. It can result in mood swings, depression, increased susceptibility to illness—“

Spock tensed under McCoy’s hands as he finally understood what the doctor was getting at. 

“If your patient is human, then there is a chance you are correct. If not, your unwanted conjecture may pose an invasion of his privacy.” Spock’s tone grew icy, his spine ramrod-straight all of a sudden, unyielding. 

“Spock,” McCoy sighed, greatly put-upon. “Shut up, take your shirts off, and relax.”

It was, perhaps, a mark of how much Spock needed to be touched that he obeyed without further argument.

McCoy gave him a professional rubdown: heated oil, deep tissue massage: the kind designed to turn your muscles to water. It was definitely challenging; Spock’s muscles were so tense they felt hard as a rock even after he acquiesced.

Spock put his shirts back on when McCoy finished, unable to meet his gaze. 

“Come back in three days for another,” McCoy said to give his hands some time to recover from all the unaccustomed hard work. “Doctor’s orders.”

For a wonder, Spock did as he was told. McCoy added therapeutic tools—a TENS unit, hot stones, some soothing Vulcan music, anything he could think of, but he kept his main focus on touching Spock for a while, letting him soak up whatever magical thing people got from being in contact with somebody else’s skin besides their own. 

“You know, sickbay’s not really a relaxing environment for this kind of thing,” McCoy commented after the second time Chapel wandered through and he had to start relaxing Spock all over again. “How about we move this to your quarters? That way you can just turn over and go to sleep when I finish.”

Spock reluctantly agreed.

The next time they met, McCoy went straight into the first officer’s quarters to find Spock facedown, waiting for him, wearing loose, low-slung pajama bottoms. 

He sat on Spock’s bed to do the massage; it proved kind of difficult to reach both sides evenly because Spock’s bed lay pushed up against a wall, and McCoy couldn’t tilt it the way he would a bio-bed. 

“Here, let me try something. I’m gonna climb on,” Bones warned him, then kicked off his boots. In a second he’d knelt over Spock’s ass so he could put all his weight into the massage. He set the heels of both hands against every vertebra and pressed down. 

Halfway down the thoracic spine, Spock’s back cracked, and he moaned, low and vibrant and throaty. Most definitely a moan.

Bones paused, his eyes going round; his body vibrated in tune with the sound and his cock immediately stood up and took enthusiastic notice. He abruptly realized he’d blithely invited himself into Spock’s bed, with Spock sporting about a half-acre of naked Vulcan skin that it was McCoy’s job to touch.

Damn it, McCoy came here in his capacity as a physician, not a lover. Arousal simply wasn’t acceptable professional behavior. Not at all, not even from a man who made house calls. 

He lifted himself up onto his knees before he continued; he wasn’t quite sure when he’d lowered himself to sit on Spock’s ass. That wasn’t professional either. 

Nor was the luxuriant, sensual way he’d been rubbing the massage oil over every inch of skin, feeling its smooth texture beneath his palms, liking the way it slipped and slid over muscle and bone. Of course, the point of this whole exercise was to touch Spock, to feed the craving that’d built up in him over no telling how long—but maybe Bones had let his own needs go for too long, as well, without realizing. 

He drew a deep breath and lifted his hands, trying to remain casual. "You know, Spock, I've just realized I'm having a hard time maintaining my professional detachment in this situation. Would you prefer I left and called Dr. M'Benga to help you? Or… maybe you’d rather ask Jim to give you a hand instead." He carefully kept his tone calm and unjudging, pretending he wasn’t concerned with the answer.

***

Spock knew that his actions were...shameful. He was greedy, grasping, and taking that which did not belong to him. (Touch was casual among humans. He had done nothing that he had not seen the Captain do to casual acquaintances, and there had never been an expression of discomfort. But Spock was not human, no matter how much Doctor McCoy tried to goad him into admitting otherwise.

(The good doctor who had such...delicate hands. Strong. Skilled.) 

Spock was weak. And shamed. And could not help himself--the gnawing ache within him grew, and he feared it may soon consume him. He grew careless in his desperation, and when McCoy confronted him in sickbay, it took him far too long to realize of which crewmember McCoy spoke. 

But McCoy was, as he always was in medical matters, correct. Spock was...deteriorating. It did not yet burn like _plak tow_ , but Spock fully believed that it could. 

When McCoy instructed him to remove his shirt he complied, though to his horror, despite how _wonderful_ McCoy’s hands were, he could not fully relax. 

It did help, however, and his job efficiency increased for the first time in months. 

He looked forward to their subsequent sessions with anticipation and dismay. Logically, he could not deny the benefits of this... _touch therapy,_ but each session did more than just ease his tension and soothe his tattered edges. It built a bond between them, an excitement that Spock had not expected to feel outside of pon farr--which meant, of course, that he never expected to feel it at all. He craved McCoy’s touch, and--when Nurse Chapel blundered in, and McCoy’s touch turned protective and _possessive..._

When McCoy suggested moving out of sickbay, Spock felt it only logical to agree. 

It was only logical, as well, to set a more relaxing scene. If McCoy--if Leonard wanted him in bed, then Spock would oblige. 

Spock prepared, changing his bedsheets and turning the ambient temperature down. It would not help him stay warm, but it would make it more comfortable for Leonard (and maybe, Leonard would press his body against Spock’s own, to share warmth skin to skin). He showered, cleaning himself with more than his usual fastidiousness, and dressed only in the bottom half of his sleep costume. His fingers itched to don his sleep top against the growing chill in the room, but he forced the urge away. He gave in to far too many urges as it was. 

With nothing left to do, Spock lay face down on the bed, not even bothering to lie to himself about the logic of the action. Would Leonard recognize the overture Spock was making? Would Leonard reciprocate? Spock had sensed glimmers of lust in the doctor, faint gossamer things, in sickbay; did Leonard even know his own responses? Or would this evening end with him once more Doctor McCoy? 

Spock needn’t have worried. 

Leonard had arrived early, a sign of eagerness; Spock knew it the moment Leonard laid his hand on him. The bed did not provide quite the same access, and Leonard climbed on top of him, straddling his posterior with hardly a second thought. It changed the angle of force, giving Leonard more leverage, and for the first time, the massage fully penetrated his tense muscles, and Spock--

Spock _moaned_. 

And Leonard--

McCoy--

The good doctor stopped, leaning back, but not before Spock sensed it, a single firework of _want_ that burst through their tentative link. Spock was dizzy with it, and moved restlessly when McCoy lifted his hands. 

McCoy took a deep breath; Spock felt it echo through him as McCoy’s weight shifted above him. Leonard’s voice, when he spoke, was thicker than his usual, and deeper. _A sign of how much he was affected,_ a small part of Spock noted, and he forced himself to listen, to process the words. They were important enough for McCoy to stop. 

"You know, Spock,” McCoy said, “I've just realized I'm having a hard time maintaining my professional detachment in this situation.” 

_Good._

“Would you prefer I left and called Dr. M'Benga to help you?” 

_No!_

“Or… maybe you’d rather ask Jim to give you a hand instead." 

“If I had wanted Jim here, I am fully capable of asking him myself,” Spock said, practically growling. He did not need Leonard’s hands on him to feel the weight of his skepticism. It was no surprise, then, when Leonard muttered: 

“So sure about that, are you?” 

Spock pushed up, the heat that still burned within him adding to his strength. Leonard moved with him, up and back to let Spock move, and Spock ended up on his back, braced on his outstretched arms. 

“I do not doubt Doctor M’Benga’s professionalism, nor his qualifications, but I find I do not wish him here in your stead. Neither do I think you wish him here. If you can not be a doctor in this moment, then do not be one.” Spock found his breath coming hard. “We have had our disagreements in the past, Doctor, and I find I...anticipate our debates. I would call us friends.”

Leonard stared at him, his brilliant blue eyes dark. “And you would have me here, as a... friend?”

The moment stretched between them, but Spock would not let it last. Logically, Leonard was right. They should stop, and Spock should assess when his mind was more clear. 

But Spock ached, and there was no room for logic here. “I would,” Spock said. 

Slowly, Leonard nodded. “Then on your front, Spock. We’ll do this right.” 

Spock nodded and turned to move, when Leonard stopped him with a hand on his arm. It was cool against his fevered skin, and Spock shivered. 

“You might be more comfortable if you take your pants off, too.”

Spock nodded, and hooked his thumbs into his waistband, catching the soft fabric and pulling it down over his hips. Leonard's eyes widened when Spock exposed his cock, already flushing and filling. 

Leonard licked his lips, and Spock rolled over. 

Settled back onto his front, Spock felt the bed shift, the rustle of cloth, and a moment later Leonard climbed back over him, now stripped of his own clothes. Spock arched back against the weight of him, trying to press closer, and Leonard rolled with the motion; he rubbed his hands together briskly, the sound of the warming lotion between them loud in the the quiet of the room. Then Leonard’s hands were back on Spock, warm and firm and spreading more of that electric pressure down his spine. 

Leonard’s thumbs dug in against the stiff muscles, working their way down, even as Leonard himself remained arched forward, hovering over Spock’s back. Spock could feel the warmth of him, radiating out like a star in the cold, dark of space. 

Those talented fingers reached the base of his spine and pressed in and down and Spock _felt_ the moan as it was pulled from him. Leonard must have felt it too, as he echoed it near Spock’s ear. He shifted, rocking forward, and Spock felt the hard length of Leonard’s erection against his cleft. The tension left him at once as he pushed his hips back, bracing hands against the mattress above his head and grinding against Leonard even as he dropped his head to the bed. 

_”Fuck, Spock,”_ Leonard bit out, and he met Spock’s thrust, circling his hips, and the hot drag of him, pulling to the point of pain, made Spock gasp aloud. 

It was not, actually, a signal to stop—something that Spock absently noted for discussion later, as Leonard _did_ stop, swearing under his breath. 

Spock would have spoken in protest, had not Leonard only pulled back far enough reach for the massage oil with a shaking hand. He flipped the lid with his thumb only on the third try, and poured a liberal amount of the cold oil onto Spock’s cleft, spreading it onto his cheeks with one broad hand, Judging by the sound, he also slicked his cock with quick, sure strokes. 

Would Leonard penetrate him? Not without discussion, surely, but the thought of it made that wild heat uncurl in Spock’s chest. To be touched not only without, but _within_ —

He shivered. 

“Sorry, darlin’,” Leonard apologized, running a soothing hand over Spock’s shoulders, down the center of his back. “It’s been off the warmer—and you don’t want those self-warming oils. Chemical burns waiting to happen.” 

Spock squeezed his eyes shut. Leonard’s drawl, which ran like honey on a good day, had thickened in the friction between them. “Leonard,” he bit out, practically snarling, and now it was Leonard’s turn to moan, choked off as if he had been struck. 

“You—“ Leonard said, but cut himself off to run his thumb up Spock’s cleft in a swift, sure stroke. Spock gasped, hips stuttering as if they didn’t know how to react. Leonard’s thumb was relentless, rubbing back down until it found Spock’s anus. He pressed firmly against it with the flat pad of his thumb, the tips of his fingers curling under and pressing up against his perineum, and Spock saw stars behind his eyes as his body shuddered. 

“Good,” Leonard said softly. “I wasn’t sure if your body would react to that particular stimulus like a human or like a Vulcan—Not that I’m entirely sure of the role of the Vulcan prostate in anal play, but—“

“Leonard,” Spock said. “I would be more than willing to discuss such things with you at a later date, but at the moment the most logical course of action would be to continue in the vein in which we had begun—and quickly.” 

It took Leonard less than a moment to start chuckling. “In other words, ‘stop talking and get on with it,’ eh, Spock?” 

Spock looked back over his shoulder. Leonard was flushed all over, sweat starting to gather at his temples, but his eyes were bright and sparkling, and his grin was warm, affectionate, and a bit—Spock believed the correct term was _wicked_. “I believe that is what I said.” 

Leonard didn’t respond, but he did press his thumb against Spock, rubbing in a small circle until Spock’s head fell forward once more. 

Once Spock began to press back against that thumb, Leonard moved his hand, gripping Spock’s hip even as Spock whined his protest. With gentle pressure, Leonard guided Spock’s hips, tiling them just so, until he could line his cock up against Spock’s cleft. Spock nodded and Leonard thrust shallowly against him, his grip on Spock’s hips sure and firm. 

“You feel that?” Leonard asked, “That rhythm?” Spock nodded. “I want you to keep that up, you hear me?” 

Spock swallowed, nodding again. “I hear you.” He rocked his hips, imitating Leonard’s rhythm until the Leonard’s hands shifted their grip, resting rather than guiding. Spock didn’t have time to wonder why, however, so much of his higher functions focused on keeping the rhythm, the speed, the tempo, and yet it didn’t surprise him when Leonard reached down with one hand to cradle Spock’s erection against his palm. He ran his fingers down the length, over the twinned ridges, the soft head, before spreading out over him the best he could and pressing upward so that Spock was thrusting against Leonard’s hand with every roll of his hips. 

“You’re doing so well, darlin’,” Leonard said quietly to the skin of Spock’s back. “So good.” 

Spock’s hands fisted in the sheets. He wanted to touch, to feel Leonard as Leonard was feeling him, but this position afforded him little movement save for what Leonard allowed. He wanted more, he _needed_ more. But when he opened his mouth to say as much, all that came out was a broken “Leonard!” 

“I have you, Spock. I’ve got you,” Leonard said, but Spock just shook his head until Leonard leaned forward, his other hand leaving Spock’s hip, sliding up Spock’s skin to his shoulder and down his arm. It hesitated at Spock’s wrist, Leonard’s finger tapping lightly, as if unsure and asking for permission. With much effort, Spock unfurled his hand, holding it open, fingers splayed in the most blatantly begging display he had indulged in so far. 

Leonard gave him little time to think, however, as his hand fairly swooped in to run down the back of Spock’s hand with all of his fingers, curling around and between them and squeezing tightly. Leonard’s mind was there, had been there all night but now it pressed against him, with him, into him even as Leonard pressed himself to Spock, chest to back, thigh to thigh, leg to leg, and—

Spock wasn’t sure if he cried out loud, or if his pleasure was echoed between their minds, but his completion burst between them, supernova bright, and in the raining embers, he felt/heard/sensed Leonard come apart above him. Together they rocked, slowing from their frenzy to something softer, sweeter, until they were still once more, save for the tiny kisses Leonard pressed to the flushed skin between Spock’s shoulders. 

Spock drifted on the haze between them, his mind calm the way it was after long hours of meditation. The gnawing in his chest had eased, chased back at least for the moment. Leonard was warm above him, a happy weight pressing down and he should have felt trapped. He didn’t. He felt calm, and...safe. 

Then Leonard-- then McCoy pulled back and the cool air rushed between them, raising gooseflesh and he stiffened to prevent himself from shivering at the (loss) cold. 

“Scooch,” McCoy said, senselessly, and Spock stared at him. “Come on, now, these beds are too small to wrestle on, and I’ve never been the type to simply run off.” 

McCoy-- Leonard intended to stay. Spock could not think of a reason why, but the haze from before stilled his tongue, and he forced himself to roll onto his side. Leonard settled onto the bed, half-propped up on Spock’s pillow, and opened his arms. Spock blinked at him, and Leonard rolled his eyes, gesturing him closer. 

“C’m’ere,” he said, and Spock frowned at him, trying to reason. Leonard didn’t give him the chance; when he sat up to grab the blanket, Leonard placed his hand, palm open on Spock’s arm and guided him down. Spock went, letting Leonard arrange them until Spock was lying mostly on his side, his arm over Leonard’s stomach and their legs tangled together under the blanket. Leonard’s arm was around Spock’s shoulders, holding him close, and his other hand traced idle shapes on the back of Spock’s arm. The hazy feeling returned, though less strong, and Spock...settled. 

***

McCoy settled into the drowsy comfort of afterglow, only half-successful at pushing away the part of him that was aware serious unexpected shit had just gone down, with a staggering number of as-yet unknown long-term repercussions. Spock’s eyes closed and he relaxed, content to be held. 

God, Spock must have been in bad shape to let this happen, with McCoy of all people…! He stroked Spock, trying to reassure him, unsure what to say. He’d taken as much comfort as he hoped he’d given. He kissed Spock’s temple, half-apologetic, determined to savor whatever he could before Spock kicked him out so hard he bounced halfway to Rigel. 

He couldn’t seem to stop nuzzling little kisses against Spock’s exposed skin. “Feeling any better?” He murmured.

“Yes, Leonard.” Spock’s voice was husky, dark with relaxation and pleasure. 

McCoy took a deep breath. “Good. Whenever you need me, I’m here, you understand? Your friend. All you have to do is come to me and I’ll take care of you.” He gave in to sudden temptation, stroking Spock’s soft, fine hair, brushing it away from his forehead and watching it slip back into place again. 

Spock’s dark, inscrutable eyes locked on his, his face oddly vulnerable as he studied McCoy in somber silence.

“I won’t give you a hard time, and I won’t tell anybody, not even Jim,” McCoy pledged. “You don’t ever have to be embarrassed about this. Not with me.” 

“No, Leonard.” This time his words came softer, almost hesitant, a shadow of unpleasant emotion ghosting through his dark eyes. Shame? It made McCoy’s heart hurt.

“Shh,” he soothed Spock, nestling him close, one hand protective behind his head. He brushed his lips against Spock’s forehead before it occurred to him to wonder if he had the right, now that it was over. 

But then Spock stirred, moving one hand to curl around McCoy’s and lifting his head to offer his mouth, tentative. McCoy’s heart nearly stopped; the small gesture somehow seemed far more intimate than anything that had come before. 

He kissed Spock lightly, a careful brush of lips, and felt him sigh. His breath tasted sweet.

“Will you return tomorrow?” Spock’s words moved his lips against McCoy’s skin, wistful, and his fingers stirred, caressing McCoy’s slowly. 

McCoy couldn’t help but chuckle, deeply touched. “Only if you make me leave between now and then.”

Spock blinked at him. “We will have to go on duty in the morning.” He closed his eyes, apparently considering the matter settled.

Translated into English, that seemed to mean McCoy should stay the night.

So he did.


End file.
